


Put a Bullet In The Devil

by fragilelittleteacup



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Choking, Guns, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Pining, Violence, WARNING: MATT DIES, Whump, fisk loves wesley and also he loves vanessa, my OT3 in all their gory glory, vanessa is completely okay with this, wesley accidentally shoots his ear off oops
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-28
Updated: 2016-05-28
Packaged: 2018-07-10 15:59:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6992497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fragilelittleteacup/pseuds/fragilelittleteacup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if the bad guys had won?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Put a Bullet In The Devil

They’d misjudged the Devil.

Apparently, the man in the mask didn’t enjoy the prospect for revenge as much as he did the idea of surviving–they cornered him, in the warehouse, but he ran. Nobu’s body was freshly smouldering, flesh peeling and melting, and the stench filled Wesley’s head as he sprinted after the man. Fisk was behind him, footsteps thudding against the ground, but he wasn’t fast enough; Wesley kept running, until his lungs were burning and he was breathing battery acid, and they weren’t in the warehouse anymore. Just him and the man in the mask. The vigilante was injured; Wesley was a negotiator, not a foot soldier in Fisk’s empire, and he knew his target’s injuries were the only reason he hadn’t been outrun thus far. He knew that now, this night, was probably the only chance he'd have to  _finally_ end this problem–they wouldn't get a chance like this again. The vigilante healed fast, and if they let him go, he'd disappear long enough to lick his wounds, then reappear to cause more chaos.

It’d been a long time since Wesley had gotten his hands dirty; maybe that explained the eagerness, the violent _need_ he felt to kill this man.

Or maybe he just wanted to see the expression on Fisk’s face when he told him he’d solved their most pressing problem.

Either way, motivation and adrenaline filled him like fire, until he found himself stopping on the boardwalk, by the river, gun slick from the sweat of his hand. The night was still, the boardwalk silver in the moonlight. Boats swayed with the gentle tide. Wesley looked around, spinning in a circle. How could he have lost him? The masked vigilante had been right in front of him. _Right there_ , and then–

Hands closed around his neck.

He wasn’t prepared, and the weight from behind had him falling forward, landing hard on the wooden boardwalk. All the air rushed out of his lungs, and fingers pressed into his neck hard enough to make his head swim, black spots clouding his vision. He heard the harsh clatter and slide of metal as his gun tumbled out of his hand. He tried to reach back, find the eyes of his attacker so he could apply pressure and escape, but his hand was seized and twisted; a palm clamped down on his throat, stifling his scream as the bones of his fingers were broken.

“How do you _live_ with yourself?” A furious voice hissed in his ear, breath hot, and Wesley felt a spark of curiosity under the tirade of fear and pain and fury coursing from him; he knew that voice. He’d heard it before.

He struggled, but there was no escaping. A white hot swell of terror began to fill his stomach as he realised that the masked man had come here to kill someone–and he’d just offered himself up.

“The _things_ he makes you do. You’re _sick.”_

Wesley wouldn’t have denied it if he could. He wasn’t normal; he never had been. Sociopathy had been the theory favoured by his first psychiatrist, until Wesley had smiled lovingly and convinced her otherwise. He was a people-person. A manipulator of the highest persuasion. Words like silk and subtlety like none other. The perfect businessman, able to oversee any transaction smoothly. Apathy. Distance. Total objectivity.

Except for him.

Except for Wilson Fisk.

It was his face, the face of his employer–his _friend–_ that kept Wesley struggling, the sounds of choked-off gasps and grunts masked by the pounding of blood in his head. The boardwalk was hard under him, and there was a knee in the small of his back. The man that was killing him was still speaking, still blathering on about justice and murder, words thick and blurred–ironic, since he was the one doing the killing here.

Wesley could feel it seeping away from him. The fight to live. The will to keep fighting.

Then he felt it. The cold of metal, of smooth silver against his numb fingers, against his flailing left hand.

The gun.

He grabbed at it, fingers uncoordinated and tingling from the blood loss, and found the trigger.

He aimed behind and above him, and pulled.

 

 

They heard the gunshot from near the warehouse. Fisk’s eyes widened; the masked man didn’t carry guns.

“Wesley,” he heard himself whisper, and then he was running. Francis was behind him.

They came to a stop by the docks. Wesley was illuminated in the moonlight, silver and red; he was swaying on his feet, a gun in his hand, looking down at an unmoving figure. The man in the mask. Dead.

“He did it.” Francis breathed.

Disbelief hung in the air, sudden and confused. Fisk smiled widely, happiness blooming in his chest.

Then Wesley’s gun clattered to the ground, falling from his hand.

Fisk’s smile faded. He noticed, then, the way Wesley’s shoulders were rising and falling, too fast–the way his hands were shaking, the torrent of thick, red blood that coursed down the left side of his head, matted his hair into slick knots.

He noticed too late.

Wesley hit the ground before he got there, not fast enough to catch him.

“Wesley!” Fisk rolled him onto his back, arms under his back, nauseated by how heavy he was, how limp. Wesley’s head hung, eyes closed, glasses askew. The front of his suit was torn and dirty, a thick ring of black bruising colouring his throat.

“I’ll bring the car around, sir,” Francis said, and then he was gone.

“No, no, no, no,” Fisk shook him, but Wesley didn’t open his eyes, “Wake up! I order you to wake up! Wesley!”

The panic of seeing Vanessa poisoned, the terror of thinking he might loose her–this was the same. This was worse, maybe. Because Wesley had been by his side for so long, had been his crutch when he couldn’t stand, had been everything Fisk had needed. And now his skin was white, his mouth hanging open, black hair darkened with blood.

“Wesley…” Fisk whispered, hating that he was so _useless._ He stroked hair off Wesley’s face, fingers shaking, and he knew, he _knew_ he was responsible for this. This was his fault. “I won’t let you die.”

Wesley didn’t respond, and Fisk couldn’t find reassurance in promises.

He hadn’t prayed for Vanessa. He hadn’t been able to.

But he tried now.

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> (I lost my drafts, so this fic is unfortunately abandoned for now... sorry)


End file.
